


Sand Vein

by Simply_Isnt_On



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, John Watson Is A BAMF, SOLDIER - Freeform, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2013-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-23 21:48:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/931441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Simply_Isnt_On/pseuds/Simply_Isnt_On
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is alive. It's not something to take for granted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sand Vein

**Author's Note:**

> Guys it's three thirty AM. I wrote this whole story and all the tags on a 3x1 inch kindle keyboard, so understandably all mistakes are mine and the night's.

The Afghan sun is hot. John and the rest of his platoon curse it as it gets higher, hotter, and as the weeks pass they forgo the cursing for breathing, for  _thankgodImaliveyourealivetodayalivealivealive_.

John learns to carry things on his back, kilos of supplies to heal and keep the people he would die for breathing just that bit longer. His calves ache because running in sand is not the same as running on tarmac. He does not complain. He is alive.

Sand in everything. In the food, in his hair, his eyes, beating with his heart, filling his world until he is sure if you cut him the desert would pour out. The Watson desert, they'd call it. He's not sure who 'they' are.

He lies on his cot, staring at the tent roof. Canvas. Moon, stars, sun, all the same, same planet, same solar system, but in London it's never so fucking HOT! (He ignores the niggling voice in his ear informing him that yes, sometimes, it is. He knows it isn't.) He should sleep. Now is not the time for contemplation, you are a soldier, you sleep you eat you fight you die you're done. 

John folds his hands on his belly, feels the ache of sleep in his muscles. Feels the blood pound, alivealivealive, against his bones, pelvis, clavicle, scapulae, bracketing his organs, precious organs save the organs if they bleed you're dead don't let them bleed blood belongs inside.

Running in the desert, mirage to the right, ignore it, not real, doesn't matter, standing water is irrelevant. Fuck fuck bugger fuck. How his mother would weep to hear him swear. Mother I'm a soldier it's in my blood in my sand in my muscles bones hair teeth lungs.

A book arrives, gift from a daughtersonfather civilian. Passed around, I like this part, mind if I read it, done with it anyways, a gift for the platoon and they share. Left behind, can't come along, essentials only. No room for frivolities and dreams.

Blood blood blood outside the body not in shoulder wound  _scapulaeshoulder trapeziumshoulder clavicleshoulder_  pain pain pain I thought it would be sand. Stay with us Captain come on tell us what to do no more morphine need to think leave the bullet they'll. Too far away get it now use your knife careful cuts like a steak don't waste space don't cut vessels blood blood blood apply pressure black.

White white white where's the beige. Clean. Sheets. White shirt. Pants. No fatigues. Legs too light. IV tugs oh yes skin. Tape. Water. It's not brown. Light too dim. Wound healing nicely honorable discharge NO!

London. Civilians. Cabs. Rain. Sun not hot enough. They don't know the blood.The sand. Clean here. Skips and rubbish. No earth. War is pure. Smog.

Bedsit. No breathing. Alone. Why? No one breathing no one breathing NO NO NO KEEP BREATHING I CAN'T DO IT FOR YOU oh. No comrades (they were my brothers) no colonels. No cots. Gun. Gunmetal smooth gray sleek cold NO.

Blink. Blink. Blink. Trust issues. Blog. Blink. Blink. Screen. Not alive. A computer cannot feel.

Need air. Sun. Weak. Smells wrong. (John! John Watson!) Cane. Hand. Sewed skin. Steady. Gun. Steady. Coffee shakes, hide it.

Bart's. Was a different man here didn't know blood thought I knew pain. No. (/Help I'm shot I need help please-/) Morgue. Morgue? Impersonal meat dead no breath. Why bother? (You know why.) Doesn't matter.

It's a man yes so what-  "Afghanitan or Iraq?" Wait.

Breathe.

"The address is 221B Baker Street."

It smells of sand in here. Why?

Black car / _get in the car Dr. Watson_ / you don't seem very frightening.

<Could be dangerous .-SH> Don't fucking toy with me nothing in London is dangerous really (but what if it is) it's not (but what if) I'll go.

The phone is here no not in the case BUT IT IS ("No, no, no, don't be like that, practically everyone is-") It's moving.

He can't it's the murderer cabbie cabbie something dangerous adrenal glands flood system- no time for that TAXI! Run run run lights yes no don't take the pill I'm here wait WRONG FUCKING BUILDING-

There is sand there is sunbloodscreamsgunsshellsbulletsHELPME Sherlockbrothercomradeinarms is going to die.

Steady breathe don't pull the fucking trigger squeeze exhale Watson breathe it's a gun not a snake HE'S GOING TO BITE SHOOT NOW!

STOP.

Shock blankets shocking shade of orange how is that supposed to help? No Seargant Donovan-is that a dead body? Who died? (Excuse me Dr. Watson I'm very busy) yes stand aside. Hands behind back check pulse. Still there. Not sand. Sand rustles. Blood whooshes. Good.

Bones bracket empty stomach "Dinner?" God yes. Smile. Can smile. Sherlock alive brother safe did my duty for queen and country. Fuck that. Alive. Amazing. Breathing without alive- blood outside the body. Live.


End file.
